“You got any idea what you’re so scared of?”
Tears bit at Carly’s eyes. “All of this. The town…my options. You.”
Sam’s eyes flashed as he quietly said, “I don't suppose you’d care to explain that.”
“I don’t know that I can. It’s just that this all seems so real. And I’m—” she met his gaze, sadly shaking her head “—not.”
Sam’s face hardened. “That’s crap, Carly.”
He withdrew his hands from his pockets, then took three or four slow, deliberate steps toward her. “Funny thing,” he said, “but I think I’ve got a pretty good handle on the difference between illusion and reality, And as far as I’m concerned, you are one of the most real women I’ve ever met. So deal with it.”
He headed for the door, only to turn back and say, “By the way, I’ll be picking you up for the dance tomorrow night around seven. I’d appreciate it if you’d wear something to make every male in the room regret not being me.”
Swept Away
Karen Templeton
KAREN TEMPLETON,
a Waldenbooks bestselling author and RITA® Award nominee, is the mother of five sons and living proof that romance and dirty diapers are not mutually exclusive terms. An Easterner transplanted to Albuquerque, New Mexico, she spends far too much time trying to coax her garden to yield roses and produce something resembling a lawn, all the while fantasizing about a weekend alone with her husband. Or at least an uninterrupted conversation.
She loves to hear from readers, who may reach her by writing c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279, or online at www.karentempleton.com.
Thanks to Debra Cowan, Pam Martin, Teresa Harrison, Kari Dell and Leta Wellman, who patiently answered all my farming questions—I trust I gave you guys a good laugh or two along the way. Trust me, I’ll never look at bacon the same way again!
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 1
In the three years since his wife’s death, Sam Frazier had prided himself on not tumbling into the abyss of helplessness common to many widowers, especially those with young children. Whether his refusal to let chaos gain a toehold stemmed from his wanting to do Jeannie proud or just plain stubbornness, he had no idea, but he thought he’d been doing okay. Until this bright and sunny September morning when his teenage daughter tried to sneak past him wearing more makeup than a Las Vegas showgirl and not a whole lot more clothes, and he realized he had one foot in that abyss, anyway.
Not that Libby was having a good morning, either, having attempted her little maneuver when the kitchen was filled with her five younger brothers, several of whom thought girls had cooties as it was. Girls who were related to you and who had suddenly taken to looking like women were clearly the embodiment of evil and hence to be thwarted at every opportunity. Or at the very least greeted by a chorus of disgusted gagging sounds, which even Sam—inured as he generally was to such noises—would be hard put to ignore.
Sam caught Libby’s hand and spun her around on her army-tank shoes, the ends of her long, dark hair stinging his bare arm. Silence shuddered in the room, broken only by one of the dogs lapping at his water dish, as something damn close to terror shot through him, that his little girl—especially in that skimpy, midriff-baring top and dark lipstick—was no longer “little” in any sense of the word. And he knew damn well exactly how every teenage boy in the county was going to react to that fact.
“More fabric, less makeup,” Sam said calmly, his gaze riveted to Libby’s defensive light brown one. He felt a twinge in his left leg, an old ache trying to reassert itself. “Go change.”
“No time, Sean’s already here—”
“He can wait.” Sam dropped her hand, nodding toward her room, an old sunroom off the kitchen he’d converted so she’d have more privacy and because five boys in two small bedrooms upstairs was no longer working.
“I’m not changing,” she said, chin out, arms crossed, in a pose that would have been the picture of defiance but for the slightly trembling lower lip. Sam felt for her, he really did: teenage angst was bad enough without the added indignity of being the only girl in a houseful of males. “All the other girls wear makeup, everybody’ll think I’m a total loser if I don’t.”
“First off, baby girl, all the other girls don’t wear makeup. Or wear clothes that look like they outgrew them four years ago.” Since Sam substituted up at the high school on a regular basis, Libby knew better than to argue with him. “And anyway,” he added before she could load her next round of ammunition, “I didn’t say you couldn’t wear any makeup. Just not enough for three other girls besides you. And you know the school dress code won’t allow a top like that—”
“Well, duh, I’ve got a shirt in my backpack to put on over it when I’m in school. This is just for, you know, before and after.”
“And this is, you know, not open for discussion. Go change. Or,” he added as the black-cherry mouth dropped and an indignant squawk popped out of it, “Sean goes on to school and you take the bus. Or better yet, I’ll drive you.”
A fate worse than death, Sam knew. “This is so unfair!” she yelled, then stomped away, only to whirl around and lob across the kitchen, “You’re only on my case because you don’t like Sean!”
“Has nothing to do with whether I like him or not,” Sam said mildly, even though hormones poured off the boy like sweat off a long-distance runner. Locking Libby away in a tower somewhere for ten years or so was becoming more appealing by the second. “I don’t trust him,” he said, just so there’d be no mistake.
Eyes flashed, hands landed on hips. “What you mean is, you don’t trust me!” Four-year-old Travis snuggled up to Sam’s flank and asked to be picked up; behind him, he could hear muted clanks and clunks as Mike and Matt, his oldest boys, went about making sandwiches for lunch. “God!” Libby said on a wail. “I wish you’d find a girlfriend or get married again or…or something so you’d stop obsessing about us all the freaking time!”
Five sets of eyes veered to Sam as he idly wondered where the sweet little girl who used to live here had got to, even as he tamped down a flash of irritation that would do nobody any good to let loose. Smelling of Cheerios, Travis wrapped his arms around Sam’s neck, while eight-year-old Wade and first-grader Frankie, still at the breakfast table, silently chewed and gawked.
“You’re entitled to your opinion, Libby,” Sam said levelly. “But you’re upsettin’ your brothers, you’re keeping Sean waiting, and you’re gonna be late for school. So I suggest you keep those thoughts to yourself until a more appropriate time. Now get moving, baby girl.”
“Don’t call me that!” she shrieked, then clomped out of the room.
Letting Travis slide